Someone predestined to be the prey of our instinctive prejudice

In our life, there can be someone who is familiar to us in a way he or she comes within our sight on an irregular basis, but we have already had a sort of predisposed attitude toward that particular person, given his or her reserved manner, pertness, vanity, affectation, or sort of obtruding himself or herself as having something to shine over us, such attitude that we can’t get on with him or her ever. And, when chanced to stumble on with him or her face to face followed by some gestures of conversation or floundering to make such, we thereafter take the encounter as something far less than an encounter of such with a complete stranger, which can sometimes turn out into more closeness later on. It’s so true that it’s more of our yielding ourselves to the excess of our predisposition of such, so absolute to us. It can be true also that, if chanced to know him or her more, he or she can turn out someone stark different from our blind, sort of instinctive calculation on his or her being, like a character certificate generated by our own way of judging. But how such a thread of seemingly fixed mental forecast on someone particular but not on many others?   

Assuming to be getting connected to the coiner’s intention

The English word 'impression'--rather than an impression left by a thumb of its lines like on a piece of paper--renders its meaning full in the sense of subjectivity, its projected colorations. It's, then, proven there already, the medium, the transmission, the means of getting to, the means of dealing with our life. It's, in essence, enshrined in the cocoon of this word, what it's in reality. So do try to slow down sometimes, and see how you paint rather than being there in such a solidity--objectively, minutely, uniformly, stark naked to be hogged down. 

Keep learning on

The two things I find: the first in myself, the second in others

Retentiveness in the form of a reflex of being able to replicate an intonation of mouthing a prayer, its personal hymn, even after many years…

Living down or being able to live oneself down through the course of time, after the initial period of infatuation, alacrity, alertness....

A piece of verbiage

Inuring to, getting oneself inured to a situation like letting an adventitious element interpolate into one’s illusion of eternal coziness, the things dear as the prime props of one’s life to be swapped by something extrinsic. Or a love gone awry through our commoner’s caprice, narcissism, ego, self-absorption, want of self-command at the nick of time, and then on to this desperation called forming a habit, namely indifference that Marcel Proust qualified with the epithet ‘cruel’ but a means of survival after all. But can habit in general be more or less affected by the same process of causation, given its strong element of ‘cognitive inertia’? Here, the most beautiful thing called empathy should be invoked into defining if the same habit, like getting up early in the morning, is tinted with its splendor or not. If yes, then it can no longer be labelled as a state of such desperation, I think. 

As Proust’s fundamental belief or as the prop of his own life, it’s something like lacking the prime backup, the exigency, to deal with the changing, deceptive external world--to do without the means called art. That counts, really, as unconventional in the true sense of the word but just above the common run of sentient, language-oriented beings. He could be feeling sometimes how someone without such a means could be living, how his or her life could be barren--’chiaroscuro devoid of poetry’. 

And for me, despite myself being a fledgling aficionado, I wonder how one could deal with such flurries within and without--such colossal needs, with such a tiny heart--without a firm footing acquired through long, long labor that delivers oneself into a face-to-face encounter with the awareness of the reality universal rather than just palliative. 

*

The proximity in space and time does matter so much, given the facts that a painter does know much more about a flower than someone like you and me, someone who peruses it superficially, that having a consistent mindfulness does make a huge difference in connecting to the reality, that a chain of scurrying ants as viewed from a distance isn't of such an order and discipline as observed from a close quarter rather errant--the one before, who misses a single step, being trampled on by the following one; no place for thinking for the one before but to keep oneself going on to the end, up to the extremity of this uncertainty, life.

Sinicization of Tibetans and Tibetan Buddhism: Fact or fancy

The recent much hyped news about the transformation of Tibetan Buddhism, namely Tibetan Buddhist Studies, into that of China’s version or adapted into the needs as per the party’s propaganda tools, for its hypochondria of sky-falling paranoia of detecting a more powerful attraction above it and its shallow philosophical grounds, as could be learned from the suppression of Falun Gong movements or sect throughout China, what could be so confidently presented just as a generality is that Tibetan Buddhist Studies (Science of thoughts and emotions to its arrays of knowledge fields including, as the major factors, ontology, epistemology and training of minds) is so much or far above socialistic ideals brimming just along a blurry horizon of just perorating but not of praxis, for being a commoner, self-interested one. We have far sounder evidence related to coherentism, shared knowledge that can be postulated so much by why a Westerner is that interested in our mindfulness training (physical body, feelings, core mind, and the reality), and heuristic approaches for self-liberation first. 

But the sinicization of Tibetans, though being more than farfetched, is an interesting matter, granted that a commoner’s mind can be lured by mundane pleasures or this-life-related, matter-of-fact glitter and glamor, so obtainable, if one could betake oneself to the fray. Then, despite stark impossibility, once formed and molded as a hardy cast as thus, as a run-of-the-mill Chinese now, China could arm herself with the highest altitude dwelling legion of brave herders of warrior instinct. We had been merciless once. Mark it! 

While jotting it down, these odd notes, I happen to get struck with a sudden thought. What, could my late  beloved mother have ever envisioned his only son could be that cranky, staying in an alien land as a guest, trying to convey his deep seated feelings through an extrinsic means of expression? So unfortunately, the first alphabet I learned back then when I was seven was ABCD rather than ཀ་ཁ་ག་ང་།, ABCD each displayed on a smooth square wooden card by a Bhutanese English teacher, maybe named Sir Mencha, for us, the snotty village lads on the plank floor, to be identified by pronouncing it aloud. The crude, axe-hewn, weathered dark wooden shingles roofed oblong shack housing some four classes, with a balustraded verandah of wooden balusters raised from the ground level reached by wooden steps on its either end; it stood just at the foot of a scrubbed over hummock, with the strays of bushes at hand’s reach from the back windows: I am ephemerally once there, when she lived.  

What is the origin of your nationality?

For a Tibetan, now, at this dark juncture of our national history, each and everyone of us, above 17, hasn’t such an alternative or privilege to claim oneself as ‘apolitical’, for we’re born an oppressed one, or a political refugee. Then, does it really make sense to place our livelihood in terms of ‘better life’ or ‘standard way of living’ as the top priority? How is it, if we, too, tend to yield to the same thoroughfare like a run-of-the-mill Chinese, namely the money-making-machine way as one’s way of life?  

A comment I posted on a recent post of a Tibetan vlogger

First of all, you have to know, as you may know, the politics behind it, such trolls against Sokpo Takthi here, namely against Sokpo, for their once reign over Tibet, during which the other sectarian groups but Gelug had suffered a lot. And so, with this notion in the form of patriotism, they troll against you, namely, as you said, 'cyber bullying', and so the recent case of Sushant's suicide or murder, for his weakness not being able to stand it and walk ahead. I think for being a vlogger, blogger, given the fact of one making oneself vulnerable on the cyber world for this sense of publicity or any others, one has to be prepared with such strength and insight to be able to deal with such trolls by not caving in to their influences. If you go that weepy from now, they will target you more, keep watch over you to upend your freedom of speech or individual rights. As you are more exposed to the outside world if compared to other Tibetan girls hemmed in within the comfort zone of protection, as you said you work outside of our sphere, then you must know more. There are a lot of dastardly, cheap Tibetans out there, especially on the cyber world. And, especially now, the time for our sikyong and chithue election 2021, there are more such, and, why not, more Chinese cyber mules zeroing in on disrupting our harmony in exile. And, to go back a few years, you may remember well, one of the Kagyu chithue named Tenpa Yarphel had made a series of such attacks on our Religious and Cultural Dept of CTA's honorarium fund for Sokpo monk-students studying in our monastic institutes across India, saying there had not been any good things done by Sokpo in Tibet. And, to sum up, it's, I think, no less of sectarian spite still harbored than a systematic plan of disrupting our harmony by CCP's nexus across the world. You have to be, I think, more assertive, more confident in what you've been doing by creating this vlog, and, especially, to care more about your contents by learning more and reading more. Once you're confidently eclectic, broad-viewed, experienced by exposures, then you will see our sort of divisive cholkha or choelug sentiments, narrow sense of protection by nepotism as still in the process of mutation from barbaric tendency to more inclusive, humane way through learning that such narrowness isn't far from a colossal cul-de-sac ahead in this rapidly changing world more for self-interests than the presented goodness through perorating. I mean we will learn how we're gonna fare if we don't stand united in such treacherous global, political realm.

My post in Tibetan titled Sorry

དགོངས་དག

ནུབ་འདུ་འཛི་འདོད་ཡོན་གྲུ་ག་ཞེས། །འདོད་ཁ་ཚ་དགོས་གཏུགས་འདོད་པ་ཉིད། །དེ་ཐོབ་རུང་རེ་ནས་འདིར་འཕངས་མཐར། །དངོས་ཚོར་སྐྱེན་ད་མེད་འདོད་བཟི་བ། །སྟོན་ལོ་མཇུག་དགུན་གྲང་སྟ་གོན་དུ། །ལྗང་ལོ་མའི་ལང་ཚོ་ཁ་གྱུར་ལས། །ལྷག་ཧྲེང་ཧྲེང་སྒྲེང་བའི་སྡོང་པོ་བཞིན། །ད་ཐོབ་རུང་གིས་ཕོངས་ཡི་དྭགས་བཞིན། །ད་འཁང་ར་བཅོལ་ས་རང་རིགས་ཁུལ། །ཤོང་གནམ་སར་དཀའ་བའི་མུ་ཅོར་ཐལ། །བདེན་དྲིན་ཆེན་ཨ་མའི་བུ་རྒོད་བཞིན། །བདེན་ར་བཟི་འཁོར་ས་ཆང་ཁང་བཞིན། །ཅུང་ཐོབ་པ་རྣམས་ཀྱང་ཚོར་ཆེས་སྐྱེན། །མིག་མིག་ནང་བཅུག་ནས་འབྲེལ་བ་དཀོན། །

ཆ་མི་འཚལ་ཆེས་ཆེ་གཞན་ཅིག་ནི། །འདོད་ཉིང་ཁུ་དགའ་མའི་གྲོག་ཚང་ལས། །ལག་སོན་པ་རང་ལས་ལམ་འཛོལ་ཞིག །ཆ་གང་བལྟས་ཡོད་པ་ཅ་ཅོ་འོ། །འུར་འདོད་ལྷ་ངོ་སྐྱེངས་འཚབ་ལ་སྦྱར། །ད་ནམ་མཁའི་ལྷ་མོ་ཐོབ་སྙམ་འཁྲུལ། །ཅུང་འཇིག་རྟེན་གྱ་གྱུའི་འགྱུར་བ་ལས། །རང་ཚུགས་ཀ་བོར་ནས་སྨྱོན་པ་བཞིན། །དལ་རྟེན་བཟང་ཡིན་པ་ཡེ་ནས་བརྗེད། །ད་སྐྱིད་པོ་གཏང་ཞེས་འདོད་སྙིགས་སྤྱོད། །ཨ་ལ་ལ་དེ་ལས་སྐྱོ་བ་གང་། །

ཕྲན་ཁེར་རྐྱང་སྡོད་རུང་མཆོག་པ་ཅི། །གང་སྣང་བ་བདེན་འཛིན་གྱིས་བསླུས་པས། །ཚུལ་མིན་པའི་རྣམ་རྟོག་རླུང་ལྡང་སླ། །དེས་དྲངས་པའི་ཆགས་སྡང་ཁོ་ལོ་པས། །གཞན་ཉོན་མོངས་སྤུ་རིས་གྲུ་ཆེན་སྒྱུར། །འཕུང་རང་གཞན་ལས་ཀྱི་འཁོར་ལོ་སྐོར། །འཕྱན་ཟོ་ཆུན་འཕྲུལ་འཁོར་བློ་མེད་ལས། །

ད་འདི་ལྟའི་ཕལ་རྗེན་གཏམ་རྒྱུད་ཆེད། །འཚོ་དགོས་ན་ཡིད་ཆད་ངལ་འབྲས་དབེན། །འདི་ཤེས་པའི་མོད་ལ་ཁྱེད་དང་མཇལ། །མཆོག་ལྟ་ཀུན་སྒྲོན་མེ་ཀླུ་སྒྲུབ་དགོངས། །གདའ་ཡིད་དཔྱོད་ཙམ་མོད་ལ་དུ་མཆོག །ད་ཆགས་ས་མེད་སྙམ་ཙ་ན་མུ། །འདྲེ་བདེན་འཛིན་བར་བར་ལྡང་ཡོང་དུས། །སྐབས་རེས་འགར་དེ་ཚུགས་གཡོ་གར་གོ །ད་དེ་ཙམ་ཆོག་ཤེས་ཅི་ནས་འགྲིག །འོ་ད་ནི་ན་ཚོད་ཀྱིས་ཀྱང་འཕྱ། །བདེན་འོན་ཏང་རིག་པ་ནངས་འཆི་རུང་། །སློབ་དགོས་པའི་གཏན་ཚིག་དྲན་ཙམ་གདའ། །ད་ནུབ་ཕྱོགས་ཡུལ་དུ་ཅི་བྱ་འམ། །ད་གར་གནས་དེ་རུ་སྒྲིམ་གལ་སྙམ། །ད་དེ་ལས་གཞན་པའི་ཐབས་ཅིག་བྲལ། །

Modern Day and Night

 The paradox under our noses in our waking, hectic days

A jalousied shutter through the interstices of which I thought I could have a glimpse of something, a familiar face, like of my late mother. As we all must have experienced the same phenomenon, the same buoyant lightness yet tiresomely hefty, namely being unable to go to sleep and the wallowing over on to one side to the other associated with it, when as one is on the threshold of betaking oneself to that state of submersion of one’s gross sensory consciousnesses by any wiles, one finds once again before the shattering cul-de-sac, a disturbing tumbling sound like a huge sponge sucking in all the thread of fluid relaxing sense of submersion from its thin point to the gross level, all in vain. And to start over again. 

*

A novel reading one aboard of a train, and his or her sense of being taken interest in what he or she is reading by a neighbor, a stark illiterate one, a philistine, or a reader. One doesn’t care so, the neighbor’s own taste, but one’s being recognized as so or not, as a reader, a civilized one. As I have found on several occasions, such a reader, once found taken interest of, usually raises the book to the other’s notice by revealing the glossy cover with its title and the writer’s name in bold, sometimes in gold, like taken that much care about image.  

*

And one another small event aboard can be of eye-contacting that picks one out of many across an aisle or files of heads yoked to smart phones screens. Not like hurling a peek at the cover of a book with the awareness that the reader may be delighted, such an eye contact has its own frequency of nervous impulses being exchanged and interpreted into a skein of romantic idealisms that can sometimes romp to such a fanciful extent, like taking there being only this passage of transmission, like this being the beginning of a new world, and so on. And for me, when in tryst with a vicarious venture to see and feel as the other, I find such fusses about my own vanity but all innocence of those immobile heads among which the other head and face that steals my interest as someone to be pitied over as well being aware, at the same time, that it can be one among innumerable faces that I can see once in my lifetime. No way to venture to that extent of how the interested one spends his life in the walled, roofed domain on a daily basis, that monotony. 

*

To foot up, the limited energy matters and so the need of enough sleep. No matter how you look or you have such an attention or not, reading does matter and, why not, being self-reliant in a language both its spoken and written form, the only medium that can make you, at the desperate point of your life, be able to live alone forever by delving into yourself to the ultimate nature of everything that we tend to take as there being in its own absolute, inherent way… But such notion tainted with some findings of essentialism there is itself a great hoax, taking that it stands as it presents. No, never. And such notion of ‘certain specific objects prevail’, namely in its absolute entity, by way of sounding off, taken as the boldest of all, nominalism and its rubbish is itself a colossal sign of our instinctive insecurity, we the blind devotees of ‘being so as it presents’, not of the otherwise, the great inverse way--the tandem of not being there as it presents to us but there as our own projections like a dream.  

The familiar reverie at that level of semi-subconsciousness known as when dreaming: a deja-vu

A dream is what it is like we could sometimes happen to internalize ourselves into thinking what we had done yesterday. And so I had, however, a complex dream. It’s still fresh on my mental screen, so tentative, so alluring prompting me to indite it thus: 

Two women came into the scene. They were strangers to me; I couldn’t cull up anything as to supply myself to give some hues to their bodily outlines and clothing. I just saw one handed over something to the other, like a piece of paper or something of some value. I just observed them like with an invisible spirit-body, without any idea about my own bodily existence and its attributes but with an expanse of view before me, while I kept myself bothering with the pestering question what the thing was and while seeing the women were turning blurrier and blurrier. I couldn’t come up with a settling idea. I wanted to rewind the scene, to observe it from the beginning. And so it happened. 

The woman turning her back to me was older in a faded saree, who was the receiver of the thing from the other who was in a kurta with a floral pattern. The latter, with a bright round face, was saying something with some ease and anxiety expressed by the movements of her facial muscles. It was like she was proving herself innocent of the sort. Then, in no time, I was behind the older woman, her buttock in my hands that were running over the curves and dents of it. She didn’t seem to have any feeling, but I had a tactile feeling of coarseness as of her age. And, so out of the blue, the other young woman was in my arms, her back to me. I was fondling all over her front. I could feel the flatness of her stomach and abdomen, when, while running my hand over her genital covered by panties, I found her sort of deaf and dumb. But a friend of mine now in the states, a former monk, happened to be her proxy in communicating to me. He was all for being my instructor. While my genital and hers, now revealed, were on the point of meeting, I could hear his muffled words cautioning me to think well before the penetration. And I woke up.   

My romance with Indian railways in the time of bullet train and subway metro

Those railside dwellings, simple concrete-plastered brick walls, single or more floored, how many of them I don’t have any idea, or a solitary clay tiles roofed shack at one end of a levee of a crop strip, had been swept by my glances trying to have a peek inside one of them, especially at night when silhouetted against the thicker texture of darkness by faint, yellowish street lamps, when the secrets of interiors could be made out at a glance, not a prurient one, not a prying one but just out of an inexplicable curiosity, how a human kind lives within walls. Steam locomotives to diesel, sometimes intersected by electric ones, shuttle pilgrimage journeys to Bodhgaya from South India and vice-versa; the bobbing movements of a topless man feeding coals into an engine furnace still stands afresh on my mind. Without any idea about a viaduct, aqueduct, Roman engineering back then, I hadn’t searched for such grandiosity and wonders but how minnows appear in a rainwater stream, how carps in a pond fed by a gushing one. And something like what lies beyond the horizon within the range of my ken. 

You sound someone novel

I am looking for such a stalwart sikyong without any sickening formality but just major points on exigent issues facing us now, we the red-faced ones diaspora on the verge of getting divided through the same notion of narrowness, sense of protection felt thus through the lousy means of nepotism that helps just the stomach for a few days, not the head and the heart and the mind forever through heuristic self-awareness based on education and reason-oriented eclectic hunger for knowledge...

Nothing stands as it presents

Plodding wearily through Marcel Proust’s meandering, long, complex sentences packed with figurative, tonic tropes marked by moving analogies, characters’ personalities, introspective tracing of thoughts and their processes, sense of exaltation in the form of the sixth sense sired by mindful observances of fleeting impressions and feelings that of sensuality, stumbling on mnemonic small events as a powerful aid for sparking off long forgotten personal events as flashbacks, I happened to get stuck to a faint thought, rather poking at me to come out and indite in my own way, that questioned me about the need of such engagements intellectually or stark illiterately. Yes, really, having something to do does matter, especially now at this juncture of modern age, the age of looming loneliness worked off by petty internet related means that are literally for brain drain. And, yes, having something important to do as per one’s own way of rating does matter. Then why not something out of stark selfless motive, something like letting other or others have a relief from any self-formed anguish by undoing it without obtruding oneself upon them as undoing it. 

And the great question remains of its, such sense of exaltation, ineffably beyond the grip of ‘the government of reason’, being able to tune the subject into a liberated being off the flurries of chaotic, discriminatory mental constructs, to render it really fecund, engaged but not just in one’s own reverie. But greater or more ineffable revelation can be reached through the core doings of wisdom-intellect-based mental activities rather than just pure personal taste and satisfaction and something like saying ‘It makes me happy.’ And, yes, whether lastingly liberating or not, such phenomena of exaltation, heuristically discoverable by anyone, are there as a trail of dream, our own projections, no ground for any presumptuous self-enlargement that could toss you into the same grossness of yours, the same mundane you. 

Thus to carry on ahead to our sweet home, could be analogized by the infinity of void or space, whereupon even this notion of subjectivity, there being a fabricator, is already blotted out. Then just the space and infinity, the true liberation. But, casting a look back, there being those innumerable still shackled to the notion of  rigidity and self-consequence far off the internalized realm of seeing personal projections as what they are to shutting them out to the nature of space by the fierce reductio ad absurdum of proving the groundlessness of the fabricator, for one is merged with such everlasting infinity by virtue of the grossness of one’s being, through being aware of it, the ledge to greatness through honing on ever… Then you can pave a way for others as well, why not. 

Having something meaningful to do does matter, meaningfulness in terms of why we live for. Having something coveted for doesn’t remain the same as when one dreams for it. And it’s itself a great proof of fact and fancy, romantic idea and reality. 

And, at last, as we were born alone, we have to leave alone the aftermath of which remains stark mysterious to us, but there is such a phenomenon bereft of what we have rigged up materially in this life. Yes, saying as a ledge does matter for seeing and acting accordingly. 

CTA’s Middle Way Approach: a personal perception and inference

 

The notion of ‘global family’, humankind as the most intelligent ape despite the Darwin’s theory of presumptuously proving it as from the lowest strata of its family, the globalized economy more and more based on capitalistic or materialistic emulation or reciprocity, a pan-racial entity, the nascent yet working European Union, and, to put it idealistically yet not exaggerated, our only choice is to co-exist on this life-supporting blue planet, the landmass checkered with the lozenges of a variegated carpet, each rhombus of different size and hue and speciality and character and depth, and the inhabitants’ personalities and cultures and moral fibers based on being able to approach complex entities--our perception and inference and the reality, nuance, discrepancy of how it appears and what it’s--through reasoning or any available logical analysis, and more significantly, being able to be eclectic and free and receptive of ocean of knowledge: His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s advocacy of Middle Approach--Tibet to be within the framework of China, a China in quest for greatness, any heuristic enlightenments but through ratcheting up increment by increment, and that by being able to adopt ‘realistic’ approaches, not madness and blindness, spearheaded and guaranteed by a working, reliable, demo-oriented constitution--can be called as a great extension willing to redound to this great notion of ‘global family’, our only choice so far. 

ཤིང་ནགས་མེ་ཏོག དངོས་འབྱུང་གློག་བརྙན། Wild Flower - Documentary Film

"My children should be like a Wild Flower, resilient in any situation. Not like a garden flower, very delicate." ~ Rinchen Dolma Taring (Taring Amala) 

Lying down flat on my back at Parc de Noisiel and languidly observing those fluffy dandelion (but no, it's thistle) fluffs shooting across the patch of speckles azure void partly bordered with plane trees and chestnut trees leaves, while my mate beside me was recounting about his flight experiences something like controlling time or having a sense of living and doing, I couldn't stop repeating the above two-sentenced quote of Taring Amala. I had for the moment forgotten my obsession with my lagging behind in reading what I had been reading, to carry on steadily, and such a pugnacious notion like ensuring myself that those silver birches down there at one end of the lawn were real birches, not aspens. And also such impression, of my mate, that the pale blue leaves of birches amid the leaves of other trees at a distance, across the lawn with heatwaves jigging up, present as a mirage, like a burr of smokes.

The same dilemma

The same dilemma is just common in a nation state with a system of governance more or less of demagoguery, fascism, fundamentalist zealotry, and a triumphant mafia party with some  mimicking gesture toward any utopian coloration like socialism or communism or any that goes stark against what is favored now like those forms of democracy standing or deteriorating so far. The same dilemma: the need of such prodigies or geniuses who work like a machine, not like a thinking human mind; a thinking human mind can't be made that ductile or malleable at last despite any huge amounts of lure in the form of material wealth and comfort, or, in the other words, sensual or sensuous comforts. Once having had some, a human mind is destined to be in a quest, for some form of sublimity, however sad it's the case these days the majority of them haven't come to that state of having had, and even if there, not being well formed to be a thinker. 

Happy Birthday, your holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet

This piece in French speaks, while I wonder about the turmoil into which we are depicted as fallen like an unalienable aporia or solution, for life is itself a great canon, and its phantasmagorical alternation like the choppy surface of a lagoon over which the permanence is the brimming, providential smile of my guru, His Holiness the great 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet on whose 85th Birthday, tomorrow, I offer this benediction of mine in advance for his longevity for awaking the same beings from the dreams of the same endless turmoil that we tend to take as that supra-self-projections (creations) and that independently absolute. Happy Birthday, your holiness Tenzin Gyatso chok!

The modern art: degradation to a mimicking flunkey

Though your intramural mindset doesn't let your market-oriented, as of your own country enjoying her own sovereignty based on her self-interest, art-realm, with its own standardized convention, to be interpolated with any signs of something 'abnormal', 'interloper', I can't let your biased system to expurgate my own narrative. 

Your subservience chastens you further

When it comes to the issue of posing existential threat to one's own national security by a giant neighbor, like Nepal and Bhutan by Chinese aggressive encroachments, even on the giant India, it's bit sort of learning, to see, though not the corollary, the reward for their silence on Tibet Issue, their forbidding anti-China activism on their lands, their more than indifference to our plight. Here, though not an act of schadenfreude, it's something like letting them see what their being subservient to Chinese posing as a redoubtable one over them costs. 

A cursory sketch of someone's personality, idiosyncrasy

Being with him for a few hours speckled over the recent past days, I happened to come to an understanding, a sort of intimation with some of mine, namely a sort of vicarious experience of seeing through his eye, or of holding on to his being—seemingly like with some high idea about himself. And it was on one recent day.

Of stout, squarish medium build and sallow complexion, he wheezed out a disturbed breath. The bulk of his paunch bobbed up and down once. He tended to incline back supported by his stretched hands on the soft lawn, but the atrophied muscles of his arms didn’t let him remain there relaxed thus for long, with his paunch bit flattened. 

“Well, I will go there to meet my aunt in Tokyo, on my own expenses. But I won’t stay at her. I will stay in a hotel, and go to her, if she invites me to dine. I will join, if she takes me around. But I don’t want someone breathing at my heels about his or her favor incurred for me. I am not of such a type who can take such thing,” said he while casting nervous, envious glances at a lit gas balloon soaring high up in the night sky still dimly lit by the set sun, as it was summer solstice here in France, at a faubourg in a corner of Ile-de-France.

We were lounging on a sprawling inclined lawn rimmed with the silhouettes of towering trees minutely outlined against the sky with looming gold-tawny clouds. The lit gas balloon passed through a mass of cloud and lost for a few seconds before falling down as a dark burr like a black felt hat, with its fire extinguished. I was randomly thinking about what I had left reading, not about such silhouettes of trees but of steeples and spires of ancient churches; my haunting to it was related with the writer’s fear, of his not being able to versify and write fiction with poignant, unique way of seeing like Bolch, of his finding himself like before a cul-de-sac when he tried to cull up his intuition to be able to deal with an ‘abstract truth’, and so on. Though, frankly, I hadn’t such an intimation of myself, I liked learning more about such, like of a lost one in Sahara desert, and his means of survival to prove himself the opposite, a real doer. Maybe it could be of my own status as a political refugee in a foreign land, whatever. Yes, we were lounging there, with two young French women in mini-shorts lounging just across demarcated by a trampled strip. As the darkness deepened, I saw one of them lying on her back and the other sitting upright and smoking; the former’s way of lying by adjusting her feet one on the other and vice-versa drew me into another realm like the floating lit gas balloons in the expanse of the space. But there was this barrier of personal idea not that easy to be dismantled, not that easy ‘to take life easily’ with it. Yes, he was still talking beside me.

Though not of an ordained background, he was still single despite being forty-plus. I, however single, was not like him, namely not having had that much intimation with the earthly run of life-making. But I could feel some of his remaining single in me. No, no, not a perfectionist he was, I was unreasonably sure. Then what, if not of this same personal idea about oneself, such a phenomenon that could be found remaining absolutely independent of one’s conscience in general or at a particular time, or of one’s compunction and humane intuition. Trying to see through his eyes, despite being indigent if compared to him, I found something like being a doer in home-making sense but not making a home of himself. And so strangely to me, he, though, wanted a family of his own. I was pretty sure he had some knowledge of what I presumably thought of having traced in him, which could be a sort of epiphenomenon to his idea about himself that mattered the most to him. And could that giant one be limited somehow? Like voluntarily or involuntarily laying himself at the disposal of someone else’s caprice could be possible, but I didn’t wonder so at the time. I found instead, as the priority imposed on himself, like persuading myself to stick on to adding up a lump of designated value on another as the safe buttress of my own idea about myself to lean against, with taking the tender thing or union as sure to come up along my way ahead like the next morning. And I was almost sure he wasn’t the one who could do without such a safe buttress; he was more terrestrially charged. Then how possible about renouncing everything to pursue his own idea about himself, and that without a sound philosophical ground. 

And the clock ticks on, when I involuntarily go back to him asking myself why he lags behind despite being a doer. I find myself being meddlesome to the point of taking myself as inexistent. Why not, as seeing does matter, bumping into whom does matter in teaching you such thing of drawing you into his or her own way of seeing, for everyone isn’t gifted with such a personality that draws you in… Then why not a huge unrecognized gift, if you’re in search of such an encounter to feed your doing of such tedium and labor and value.

Sushant Singh Rajput’s Suicide Case: internet trolls sensitivity among Tibetan professional netizens

The viral pandemic COVID-19, originated in Wuhan, also known as ‘Chinese Virus’ as coined by the US president Donald Trump, through the confinement period in every respective country, has spared such leisure in the hectic life of the 21^st century, for a family, for a couple, for every individual, for a loner. Though it’s our own life, our own time, it has been rather long since we’ve taken it as something of separate entity to chase after but always sort of tumbled short of something as a gist despite running that much after. Though it has come as a miracle to connect to ourselves and spend time with our beloved ones, we find ourselves not being able to go on without a means of distracting ourselves. We find sort of stranded; said as the possibility of ‘domestic violence’, if the confinement has to be enforced further on.

Amid the rise and ebb of hope of concocting and bringing out a vaccine by this and that leading nation, amid a series of floundering gestures on YouTube as inspirational clips to brave through the limbo and fight back the torpor, in our Tibetan communities diaspora like everywhere else, amid the metallic forte of the Tibet’s right groups’ rapping about not letting go of the ‘golden’ opportunity to make China responsible for her irresponsibility and suffer, the beloved boon called internet is there to save everyone to find a niche to fill, to find a stage to showcase one’s talent, to express as one wishes with this given carte blanche. It’s really sad sometimes to find an elderly one toying with his or her smart phone on a train or metro; he or she is busy with something like bubbly Candy Crush. But it’s already a major part of our inveterate needs. And, amid our own small circles, the ongoing period has witnessed more than ever webinars like Talk Show, Live Show, Daily Vlog, and some featuring ones as well, but the latter ones are drowned in the former ones in such towering ratio.

But here and there a certain leading figure by the name of King, Queen, Minister has begun to present as at his or her wit’s end, no more space of toleration for ‘haters’, ‘trolls’, ‘negative comments’, bursting out of the cozy fame forged during the period and putting himself or herself out of his or her countenance by wearing such coloration of a visage. Some say it’s serious; we have to think before we type out a word. But the enterprise is itself vulnerable in the first place, given our trait of willing to reveal more about ourselves, to draw on more audience despite the quality of the content rather naïf as not backed by a sound means of expression. But who can be reasoned so nowadays? Everyone thinks he or she is smart; the variability of his or her own mother-tongue isn’t seen but palliated by speaking some of a foreign language rather levied on for this livelihood in an alien land where one can see cherry blossom and its ephemerality.

The recent suicide case of Sushant Singh Rajput, said as the young actor of some blockbuster, a victim of ‘nepotism’ in the Indian film industry Bollywood, said also as of haters’ trolls, is brought out by King, Queen, Minister in vindicating the seriousness of demoralizing, negative writings that can inveigle one into perdition like abetting to commit suicide. And, at the same time, sobriquets like ‘psycho’, ‘broken Tibetan’, ‘defamer of Tibetan ideals’ are seemingly taken so seriously.   

Our Arduous Odyssey: Our Fate

The most sublime culture of 'letting go' of one's own interests for the benefits of others and at last for some peaceful co-existence on this life-supporting little blue planet—and thereby the most humane means of ahimsa, peaceful dialogue, non-violent protest, grant of huge sacrificial concession, caving in to instilling in oneself with this mindful sang-froid and stint and self-content (seen as self-denial by those having some passing glimpses through the prism of market-oriented glitter and glamour and lifestyle taken as life itself)—has ever been the signatory personality, the most civilized, of the land of Aryas, Baharat, the one and only nation-state who is proud of itself stark otherwise, having never ever encroached on the sovereign right of a neighboring country. Though human being can’t live without some self-created little problems to be solved on a daily basis, as the major parts of the habituated treadmill or cognitive inertia, all those ‘big’ problems the world is facing now have more or less stemmed from the lack of the same ‘letting go’ quality, historical blunders of encroaching on others’ basic rights, the last palliative means of globalized economy as the existential threat to our fragile ecosystem, the nerves of its mechanism rooted in some huge irresponsible gluttony strained. How different our world can be, if we have lived by those aforementioned qualities? But no, we are some insane, crude-nerved dastards who can overlook millions starving for being that ambitious with reifying what is called ‘artificial intelligence’, by belittling those feeling ones, but for inventive craze, or any supra-natural insanity, arching against the same musty floor of market economy.

So Tibet, the land of snows, being ‘the faithful chela’ of the great civilization, with our own individualistic ways of approaching the most convoluted issues of mind and life, has inherited the same personality in our beings for dealing with even mundane issues regarding national interests and sovereignty, so evident from our having been on the receiving ends in our long history like Baharat herself had been so. And for now, pioneered by His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama, our prime approach to solving Tibet Issue, known as Middle Way Approach, is thickly wrapped in the same habiliments, rather unthinkable to many young Tibetan minds educated in the West. Being so sincere on our side, we even now ignore to study the other’s motive, given our tendency so ready to take for granted that human being is compassionate by nature and thereby changeable, why not entitled for ‘a second chance’.

But for the time being, the other, the system of governance so tangentially erratic and her vassals more or less silenced and mechanized into a vending machine, with just one idea about life, make money and enjoy, no place for thinking and racking one’s head, can’t be reasoned at all into giving some mind to our great personality, our placing everything at her disposal without having devised some machination of quid-pro-quo: ‘autonomy’ for independence voluntarily professed rather than as a precautious deal, ‘one China policy’ brooked without a word about India’s policy of any (how possible about India’s policy on Tibet, despite being the only guru-chela related, faithful neighbor), Nehru India’s great concessions including taking ‘Tibet as an unalienable part of China’ even after having been taken by a great shock and disillusionment, for his inimitable moral fiber and devotion to socialist revolution, a series of border scuffles and encroachments retaliated just by the same means of peaceful dialogue, even now.

Black Lives, India-Tibet Border Scuffles, Tibet Issue

If 'black lives' don't matter, then doesn't even the horrendous, sadistic deception of 'the great game' or its deal between the two imperialist states matter, which, as the self-interest of the British imperialism, guaranteed the then budding, undisciplined socialist regime of China led by Mao to carry on her occupation of Tibet that has, by and large, resulted in the recent India-Tibet border scuffles and fisticuffs between Indian and Chinese soldiers, and the death of said as 20 Indian border security forces? I say as 'black lives' all downtrodden, crestfallen lives matter. We should be aware of real culprits in the first place. And, yes, as 'to forgive is unusual', to be aware of our own potential and doing rather than letting ourselves get distracted by a hundred of shallow, cheap 'fast food' things of the market place do matter as well. 

Reading you does matter

Almost like 'climbing a mountain', almost like can be taken as 'to prepare for the battle', reading Marcel Proust renders me sophomoric in my take on my own senses, especially the sixth one. Such labor, grievances he had taken on himself to come out thus, so painstaking, exhaustive, euphonious even in the second language. Maybe related with his upbringing, privilege, being bookworm, seclusion, quest for the truth as well as the means of expression in words adorned with such breathtaking analogies and speaking, vivid delineations; maybe not so--I find him as sensitively sensational as pedantically fecund and sharp. Such hermeneutic trick and approach even for a little thing that mattered to him. Combray is alien to me, but I relate a sort of linkage there through him. Here again, it's sort of coming across some great familiarity when he confidently put forward about the intangible screen of mental constructs or ideas between the observer and the object, the coloration by the intervening phenomena whereby the observer assumes to behold the matter of any, and his arresting the discriminatory constructs between his prime sense of himself and the object. The same tonic trope is endless throughout him. 

P. Stobdan: also think this way

'The former diplomat' P. Stobdan's recent remark on Ajtak TV about His Holiness the Dalai Lama is something like coming from a petrified child in darkness caviling about the always beautiful moon not casting a streak of light on his way, now, for his need, as it is his own need, for dispelling his own fear. Yes, I once viewed the similar on-call panel discussion on a certain TV channel years back (maybe Tenzin Tsondue la was there as a speaker, on Tibet's water damming threat to India, or border scuffle issue or any), in which he happened to put himself out of his countenance by saying His Holiness and Gyalwa Karma Pa's being in India is the cause of Sino-Indian problem. But in the recent one, he pointed to his silence, his not enunciating that 'Ladhak isn't part of Tibet but of India', which, he said, he thought as so facile for him to carry out from Dharamsala. Funnily, he needs him now. If you're interested in quid pro quo, then what you've done for Tibet? For me, you're like a parvenu with an obscure title. Why he can't think thus: even if there isn't a single Tibetan in India, namely couldn't have been able to make this historic escape, Tibet under China, can China be on friendly terms with India, not carrying out her bullying, attrition tactics? I don't think so.

Tulku Ugen Topgyal: self-caricaturing your own labeling against His Holiness the Dalai Lama

In the wake of Tulku Ugen Topgyal’s inveighing expletives—‘devil’, ‘detractor of Buddha dharma’, ‘audience seeker’—, ineffably baseless and vulgar and unthinkable for an individual conscience as a Tibetan but stark infantile a series of the same designations coined by CCP leaders, against His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama of Tibet, one of the icons of refuge of this world in huge hubbub of emotional instability, I hold my ground of defending my icon of refuge thus, despite Lord Shantideva’s insightful caveat as to be able to stand as a tree, namely firm in one’s integrity, when someone inveighs against one’s guru, for such a someone is usually biased and gripped by a horrendous partiality. As a Tibetan, I want to remind myself and interested ones with such factual account that there was time once when guru Padmasambava, as mentioned in his pastoral, autobiographical annal Pema Kadu, happened to shed in such a way dithyrambically doleful lamenting about our being insensibly ungrateful ever to his doings for us. Aren’t we, and so to His Holiness the Dalai Lama even from now? Like this collective fate posed by this viral plague of now, besides defending our icon of refuge against such puerile labeling by a libertine in ordained form but trying to present as a prig, I take the opportunity to try to self-mirror and revise my own stand as how firm I am in taking His Holiness the Dalai Lama as my icon of refuge spiritually and temporally, namely how I can stand in face of such challenges, to see if I am collected myself as not to be acting childishly like the libertine himself in the form of hurling some outweighed wordings against him. Namely, if such as a one like the libertine himself can’t be reasoned that he is seemingly of the type so far from his past personal history of being such a jackanapes, then it’s, I think, better to leave him or her to rot, deliquesce, stink to deliver himself or herself out of it at last… Such happens but takes a long, long time ahead, for our instinct is of such always being self-deceptive to the extent of placing ourselves at the disposal of such mundane self-interests and sensual pleasures typically carnal ones but presenting as something else, so puritanical, so punctilious, or someone else as a good guy, as a defender of the sort.  

Covid-19: thanks, you let us connect to ourselves, if we have the guts to do so

'Social distancing' is a strange phrase for an anchorite, but it does matter in letting oneself, for a run-of-the-mill, slow down now, be at home and spend time with one's family, if one has, or connect to oneself more, like prompting oneself to take the situation as a dream that it's like the notion of oneself, this self-consequence to self-absorption. I know you can ignore someone's paranoid behaviors toward you, like taking that you're the source of this plague. I mean someone's narcissistic hues of such tipping out in such a way so strange now. Now, I don't care about such like an arched smirk but the ramifications of my own way of holding on to myself, this destructive but instinctive means. I think covid-19 is already within us, so, so long back. Don't think I'm making a joke, for I am at the front in my own way.

A well frog

By fully agreeing with the privileges of being an ordinary one in terms of stratatized social, economic norms of now, not of the depth and soundness of one's person and dignity, I do also second the greatness of pluralism and the fillip of having international aspect to any forms of creativity. But the fact remains the same backstreets in any countries now, especially even in the West. That is about the myopia of acting like a well frog, in Tibetan ཁྲོམ་པའི་སྦལ་བ་. And as per an old Indian saying, even a cur, a loutish mongrel, can act like a lion along the strip of his run. :D 

A tonic amid the huge jumble of thoughts and constructs

Like scratching an old scab, I tend to go back unwilling to let myself live down thus... But, at the same time, like letting myself at least try to form a cicatrizing pale ring around the wound, I am in love with the reality of interconnected network of origination or dependency to its infinity, much beyond your mathematical calculation and academic grandiosity so simply futuristic and bombastic. I wonder can your putting step on every entity of the galaxy matter in transforming yourself into a stable one at least at last. 

So we are Tibetans

I wonder why international medias aren't interested at all about such selflessly sublime act of Tibetan monasteries and Tibetans in Tibet donating that much to coronavirus infected ordinary Chinese on the ground, in those hellish hospitals, not in those as CCTV and CGTN present to the world, not in such a grandiose, storied complex rigged up in a week. Whoop, even now the West is fool, like during the Cultural Revolution as presented to them and their being that gullible. Yes, maybe as of their being that curious about coming into contact with something extraordinary and that from the external world that they know the best. If you ask me individually, I do, frankly, hate Chinese.

I happened to eavesdrop on so

"Tu connais jacuzzi, j-a-c-u-z-z-i? ...quand tu es enervé....," a young black woman of seemingly lissome stature, so cute that her doing herself up right before on the station platform did matter now to me, her dreadlocks worn in a smart bun as a crown on the crest of her head, was in the middle of a voice call with someone, seemingly possessive or presenting as so, or hard up, on the other end. But for me, the loner aboard RER A to Paris from a faubourg, jacuzzi that she presented as something so heavenly, so coveted after like she could remain in a one for her life time, as from the coyness even here reflected in the twinkling of her big, bit protruded eyes, presented as a timely mnemonic that let me indulge myself in dissecting everything related with it, the set to the notion of enjoying in it to the real time activity to sensations or any, to see if she could really endure it thus...  

Corona virus or what

Once someone asked me but rather as talking to himself saying he wondered about how he could sketch out a vignette involving a burst of adrenaline, typically anger, conquering every of his being. He was virtually serious. I happened to blurt out the only resource he could count on was his own, namely his being able to observe himself when he was gripped by such a one. And it's so tough, I know, I agree. And someone else beside me, now, says something else, rather a current affair. He says he wonders about the perfidy of digital, internet epoch. He means the veering of international attention, namely recognition, for being so audience-starved now, like from something real, people's future-oriented to something else crafted, a set up, for the future of a dastard regime. He says it's just a snide attempt, a fool's attempt. After much rambling about and tergiversating, he points to Hong Kong Plebeian's Movement to 'corona virus'.

The just imaginary isthmus between us

Like relishing the last dregs of an intoxicating drink but disaffected, I, while braving through a duel with sobering myself up to the gruelling notion of interconnectedness against the stark taken for granted intake of being there independently, wholly, presumed I had had a glimpse of your way of rating me, through your notion of how life should be spent, but so fleeting. 

India: How a Tibetan feels indebted to you in sundry ways

In retrospect, if the greatest quality of a nation-state at large is defined by its respect to a neighbouring or other states' sovereignty, namely its having never ever set foot upon this basic right, and especially by a big nation-state in terms of its territorial domain in diameter, I think it's India, Baharat, Hindustan, the land of Arya, the home of quintessential humane civilisations, my second home for a very long time. Thanks Gyari Dolma La, the former Home Minister of CTA (Central Tibetan Administration) based at Dharamsala, North India, for her recent remark of such during a speech delivered at a concert in Delhi. And as a product of such exhaustive ground of internalised way of dealing with oneself, I am not less affected with my gratefulness for it than my real time but subliminal feel of it in being what I'm marked by how I live in an alien land, in such chaos marked by such need of a recognition, self-interest first. 

Why it takes time to come to an understanding?

I think I got the semantic bearing, so heavy, of this American phrase: Love yourself. It's, as I think, rather the desperate workout of a conscience to be useful no matter whatever situation you're in. And so, it isn't at all about being self-interest-oriented, or in the other word 'selfish'. And so, it's stark different from Helen Keller's finding of 'self-love' as rather lousy, destructive in her own experiences. And it's quite tantamount to Nalanda's tradition of 'loving or putting others as important as oneself or more', the only cause of getting oneself content, to introduce oneself into a genuine feeling of exaltation so far. so intelligible in this earthly, uncertain life, the only and one cause of it that you think wanting so much for yourself.